


On the First Day of Christmas...

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-09-27 02:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17153792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a shield to the goddamn knee...





	1. A Shield To The Goddamn Knee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lissadiane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/gifts).



"I swear to god, Barton, if you don't quit whistling I'm gonna kneecap you." 

Clint resisted the urge to stick his tongue out - barely - and grinned sunnily across the room at Bucky. He wasn't gonna let the asshole's attitude problem affect the best time of the year, and he sure as hell wasn't going to quit whistling Christmas carols anytime soon. He gave himself a point every time someone started humming and then swore faintly under their breath; if you counted that time he organised a Santa Baby flash mob in accounting and scared the shit outta Tony, he was most definitely winning at Christmas this year. 

"Lighten up, Barnes," he said, "grinches get coal in their stockings." 

"There were a couple years we woulda done just about anything to get some coal in our stockings, huh, Buck?" Steve said, smiling faintly, because his nostalgia always somehow had to make the Depression literal. Tony - who had been attempting to outline the current threat before he'd got sidetracked rump-a-pum-pumming - rolled his eyes. 

"Yeah, yeah, little Timmy never got his sled for Christmas, but if you don't let me get on with this briefing, Steve, I'm gonna shoot your eye out." 

"Wow," Bruce said. "That was a masterpiece of mangled movie references, Tony, I'm impressed." 

Tony, naturally, took a small bow before sliding right back into his explanation as though he'd never left. 

"We don't know where they came from," he said, "or what exactly their purpose is, but - put your hand down, Barton. No you can't keep one." 

"But -" Clint bleated, and probably deserved Tasha's smack upside the back of his head. 

"Yes, they're adorable," Tony said, maximising one of the holographic screens with a flick of his fingers. Sam made a tiny cooing noise at the fluffball in front of him, and almost fell off his chair when Tony flicked to another image, showing the exact size and number of the thing's goddamn teeth. "Adorable but deadly." 

"Like our very own Winter Soldier!" Clint said, 'cos the joke had to be made somewhere, and Tasha was all too easily within reach. Bucky glowered at him, then transferred it to Steve when he couldn't swallow down his snort; Clint was grateful, 'cos he'd quit being scared of Bucky around the time of the cocoasplosion incident. For a humorless asshole, the guy was all kinds of beautiful when he glared. 

"Well unlike Barnes, these little assholes have been attacking foodcarts all over Central Park; apparently they have a taste for sausage." He grinned, slowly, and Sam was already started on his facepalm when Tony went on. "I mean," he said, "unless there's something you wanna tell us -" 

Bucky indicated eloquently, with only one finger, just exactly what he had to say. Steve huffed a breath out of his nose, channelling Clint's second grade teacher with uncanny accuracy, and tried to get them back into order. 

"So they come out at twilight?" he asked, and Tony nodded. 

"Right, which at this godforsaken time of year is about, hmm -" a glance at his empty wrist - "now, so how about we go gear up?" 

"Don't forget to layer up, it's cold out," Steve said, and then looked a little bit horrified at what'd just come out of his mouth. 

"Yes, mom," Bucky muttered, and caught Clint's eye for a fraction of a second, corner of his mouth quirking up into a ghost of a grin. 

And that was just unfair. 

 

"Oh the weather outside is frightful," Clint mumble-hummed, wrapping his arms a little tighter around himself and wishing he'd paid a little more attention to anything other than the scowling supersoldier in the corner. 

"But this coat is so delightful," Wanda answered in a surprisingly sweet voice, snuggling deeper into the maroon padded coat she'd picked out, its faux-fur collar brushing against her chilled-red cheeks. She smiled smugly at Clint's annoyed huff, his dragon breath curling around his face; that was why he liked her, she could be kind of an asshole, just like him. 

"We've got movement," Bucky said, terse, over the comms, and Clint squinted over in the direction he and Steve had taken, watching the unnatural rustling in the trees. Clint started in on 'O Tannenbaum'; Bucky swore in his ear, short and sharp and Russian. 

Clint honestly hadn't expected the things to be so fast. He shot a couple, but before he knew it they were on him, on them, and he gave up on his bow and stabbed one with an arrow even as another one tried to chomp on his boot. 

"Tribbles," Tony said. "They're like vicious versions of tribbles," and Clint had about a hundred comments ready to go but he was a little occupied trying to keep the swarm from making a snack outta his legs. 

"Little help?" he said, a note he wasn't proud of entering his voice. So sue him, the furry little fuckers had always kinda freaked him out. 

A blast of red light took out the pair to his left; pounding feet announced the arrival of back-up. Sam and Tony were searching for where these things were coming from; Tasha and Steve were on civilian duty, so this had to be - 

Bucky Barnes arriving like a dream, like a nightmare, like some weird alternate universe version of Captain America with the shield and black leather, and this was skirting a little too close to Clint's actual night-time ponderings to be anywhere near comfortable. 

"Behind you," he yelled, and Clint whirled around just in time to snag a putty arrow and shove it into the thing's mouth. They were heavier than they looked, and Clint rocked backwards just as there was a clang of vibranium on skull at just about ankle height. His foot came down on something domed and slick; it shot one way and his knee twisted in a way that was entirely other. 

"Oh," he said. "Shit." 


	2. Two Thermal Gloves

So being princess-carried back to the tower by the Winter Soldier wasn't the most humiliating thing that had ever happened in Clint's life, but that said a lot more about Clint's life than about the humiliation he was experiencing. It was dark out, but this time of year it was practically always dark out, and dark never did anything to discourage New Yorkers in any case. The streets were full of shoppers and tourists and people just starting to pour out of office buildings, and Clint decided that the best possible thing to do was lean into it. He slung an arm around Bucky's neck - shamelessly leeching that supersoldier heat while he was at it - and waved regally at the passers by. 

He lost count of the number of cameraphones. 

By the time they made it back to the tower - bet you were wishing we'd got a cab now, asshole, Clint thought a little vindictively - there was the audible gentle squeaking of Bucky grinding his teeth. He wasn't the gentlest when he swung Clint out of his arms, propping him into a corner of the elevator and punching the buttons for two separate floors. No surprises that Bucky got out on the floor with the guns and the punching bags; Clint rode up to where Tony had invested in an infirmary of sorts and shifted his weight a little, regretted it immediately, and wound up calling for help until someone showed up with a wheelchair. 

Man, he hated wheelchairs. 

There was the usual round of testing: the flexing and prodding and bending that left Clint gritting his teeth and sweating miserably; the poking and squinting at his shoulder to ensure that there was nothing more severe than the bruise where he'd landed; the part where they shot radiation at his knee and expected that not to have any negative consequences, which in Clint's experience was dangerously naive. He was singing a song about the possible effects when Dr Zielinska showed up again. 

"...watch out, he's got a spider leg!" Clint did jazz hands, just to see if he could get that stony expression to crack into a smile. He hadn't managed it yet, but he was a fool of relentless optimism. "What's up, doc?" 

Clint had been yelled at enough for refusing medical treatment that he had a fairly good idea of when injuries were genuinely shitty and when they were just a case of mild inconvenience; a grade II sprain to the MCL would hold him up, sure, and it was unlikely that Tasha would allow him in the gym any time soon, but there was no way he was staying in this sterile hell-hole any longer than he had to. 

Waking up alone in hospitals was the worst. 

So he nodded along with the care instructions, took the prescription for pills that'd end up with all the other expired medication under his bed, and scowled darkly at the wheelchair until they agreed to fetch him crutches instead. So what if he preferred something that could be used as a weapon?

It'd been a while - a lucky time of bruises and scratches and a brief period in one of those cervical neck collar things - but he got back into the swing of it soon enough, maneuvering around his hospital room and then making a break for it down the hall. 

"Mr Barton." 

"Doc," Clint said, annoyed at how easily the guy was keeping pace with him; swinging for the elevator nonetheless. 

"Naturally we cannot persuade you to stay?" 

"Naturally," Clint said, with a sideways grin. 

"Then at least take these instructions for Ms Romanova," he said, holding out a long envelope, white and weirdly ominous-looking against his dark skin. He held onto it for a moment, leaving Clint awkwardly balanced as he tried to tug it away, and then he raised his voice a little. "JARVIS, please inform Ms Romanova that they exist." 

Clint tried on his most charming grin. "What, you don't trust me?" 

Not even a flicker. The guy was impassive enough to be made of stone. It was like talking to Spidey. 

"Goodbye, Mr Barton. No doubt we will see you soon." 

Clint made a face at his retreating white-clad back, and then let himself slump against the corner of the elevator. Mostly, now the adrenaline had worn off, he was just exhausted. Pain was like a rucksack full of rocks; something that you shouldered, something that tested you, something that gradually wore you down. He considered heading straight for the room he had here - his apartment didn't have an elevator, so like it or not he was temporarily stranded - but hit the button for the common floor instead. Steve would only make sad faces at him if he neglected to check in. 

Most of 'em had managed to get showered and changed, sprawled on the furniture and picking at Chinese. Most of what was left was some limp looking noodles and a container of beef and broccoli, so Clint sighed and turned to head for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder. 

"Everyone else all right?" 

"Tony's still out scanning for a den," Sam said, "and Steve's got the media." 

"Congratulations on your 'love connection', by the way." Wanda was smirking, when he turned to face her, and he hung his head. That'd explain why Bucky wasn't a part of the collective - he hated being any kinda centre of attention, and tended to hole up in his room, scowling, until the fifteen minutes of phone cameras had got tired and gone away. 

"Really?" he said, plaintive. "That's what they got outta that?" 

"Well the grinning and waving and possessive snuggling likely didn't help." Sam was clearly enjoying this, and the asshole had stolen the last of the egg rolls. 

"Great. Now I owe the sourpuss an apology." Clint let his head fall forward against the fridge for a second, then balanced himself precariously so he could yank open the door, searching the shelves until he found - yes! - a couple slices of cold pizza. He shoved both in his mouth, 'cos how else was he going to carry them, and headed for the elevator again. 

"You don't think perhaps he owes you one?" Tasha asked, way too close. Clint jerked sideways, unnerved, and let out a muffled and involuntary noise around his mouthful of cheesy goodness. "He did, after all, cause you to sprain your knee." 

Clint just shrugged. Who on this team hadn't broken him a little? Wasn't their fault he wasn't as resilient as the rest of the toys. Tasha sighed and pulled the crumpled envelope from between his hand and the crutch, absently smoothing it out as she read. Clint figured she'd chase him if he was doing anything wrong, and headed for the elevator again. 

He startled back when the doors slid open to reveal Bucky's glaring face; almost fell but for the metal fingers that hooked into the neck of his shirt. 

"Take care of yourself," he growled. The 'idiot' remained implied. He shoved something into Clint's hand and took off down the hall. Clint glanced down to see a pair of thermal gloves - the good kind, the kind that'd keep him warm and help him hang onto his crutches, both. 

It was a little hard to convey thanks with a mouthful of flaccid pizza, but Clint gave it a good try. Bucky glanced back from the end of the hallway, his expression, from this distance, a little hard to read. 

"Fuck am I supposed to do with a pair?" he asked, and disappeared around the corner. 


	3. 3. Three Fresh Pens

Clint got back up to speed with the crutches in fairly short order, hobbling around the tower and discovering how and exactly to what extent Tony was a dick. 

"C'mon, the range?" He understood being locked out of Tony's workshop, 'cos there were a million different things that could roll underfoot, not to mention that the robots there were a danger to life and limb. Keeping him out of the gym was... probably, admittedly, for his own good, what with the number of times he'd managed to make an injury worse by pushing too far and fast. Just - he hated being useless. He hated sitting still, and not being able to help, and - 

"Seriously, Tony, you're locking me out of the range now? What's that to do with my damned leg?" 

"The boss doesn't reckon your chances of being satisfied with shooting from a seated position," FRIDAY informed him, and Clint scowled at the ceiling. 

"And saying the boss doesn't have to know will get me -" 

"Exactly nowhere," FRIDAY confirmed. 

Clint let his head fall forward, resting his forehead against the glass door a little pathetically, he'd admit. 

"If it's any consolation, Agent Barton, they're scheduled to unlock on a phased return, and the range will be available to you again in two weeks, provided the doctor doesn't tell you any different." 

Clint sulkily swung himself away, taking the elevator back up to the communal lounge and slumping into the couch. He grabbed his tablet from where he'd left it, last time he'd resigned himself to the confines of the goddamned plush monstrosity of a seat, and vengefully ordering some proximity activated singing snowmen and a positively demonic santa. For an evil robotic overlord, FRIDAY was generally pretty good at helping him cause a certain level of chaos, and he was *certain* he could get Tasha to help him conceal a couple of these in the workshop. 

And if he was very, *very* good, he could probably get FRIDAY to film it for him.

Clint was actually starting to feel a little better, for about a minute or so, but then the lights started pulsing gently, an alarm ringing out. The response was so ingrained that Clint was halfway to his feet before he put a little pressure on his knee the wrong way, falling back onto the couch with a thump and swearing under his breath. 

"I can fly the quinjet?" he said hopefully, into the air, and Natasha - who was crossing through the common area on the way to the helipad, already all decked out in her action gear, because Tasha was never more than half a step away from kicking someone's ass - snorted quietly. 

"The odds of you staying in the 'jet are so poor that even Tony wouldn't bet on you," she said, and Clint pouted. 

"They never let poor Rudolph," he hollered, deliberately tuneless, "join in any reindeer gaaaaaames." 

Natasha - because she loved him, and therefore refused to put up with his shit - smacked him upside the head, but fairly gently, and with a bit of a tousle. 

"You would be a liability," she said, "and you would only hurt yourself worse."

Clint slumped deeper into the couch, the flashing lights of the Avengers alarm exacerbating the headache that came from being inside too long; he'd been living out in Bed-Stuy for long enough now that he'd moved practically all of his winter gear out there, and it was windy enough on Tony's helipad that Clint didn't wanna risk it in just a hoodie, even if his hands would be all snuggly and warm. 

"Make yourself useful," Tony said, already all suited up and ready to go. He tossed a Sharpie at Clint and then brought over a crate from by the door, setting it on the couch next to him. It was full to the brim with those embarrassing publicity shots they'd made him take, the ones with the Santa hat, the tight red pants, the tiny puppy called George who'd barely filled his hand. 

"There's no way this many people wanted a signed photo of me with their calendar," he scoffed. 

"Maybe they're in it for the dog," Tony said, heading for the door, and Clint conceded that one with a shrug. Clint'd been pretty damned tempted to take the little thing home himself, and likely would've ended up with another pet if Kate hadn't texted him, eerily prescient, and told him that Lucky had befriended a supervillain and he owed her danger money. 

Resigned to his fate, Clint pulled the lid off the Sharpie and attempted to scrawl his signature, only to find that the damned thing had dried out. 

"Hey Tony! *Tony*!" 

"What're you hollerin' about?"

Clint grinned involuntarily. Bucky had been kinda scarce around the common areas of the tower, the last couple days. It made sense, he supposed - they usually ran into each other in the gym or the range, both places Clint was currently forbidden to go - and Clint had been kinda missing the guy's scowly face. The tight black leather didn't hurt, either... and Clint should maybe cut back on the pain pills, if that was the kinda thing his brain was gonna come up with. 

"Hey Buck," he said. "Tell Tony if he wants me signing shit, he needs to give me a working pen." 

Bucky rolled his eyes and grabbed another out of a worktop drawer, tossing it over to him; the Sharpie landed neatly in his hand without Clint even having to even move a muscle. Another landed beside it a moment later. 

"You're a - hey! - peach, Barnes." The third pen, in his favourite shade of purple, had bounced off the back of his head and landed in his hood. 

"I started singing goddamned Jingle Bells in the shower," Bucky growled, and that was - wow, that was a mental image that Clint was - definitely not gonna linger over. Nuh-uh, no way. "You're lucky it was only a pen."


	4. 4. Four Fallen Shirts

Clint got bored of signing photographs by the bottom of his first pile, and only kept going because his knee was kind of aching. While he knew that a little boredom would cause a lot less long-term damage than walking would, he still wound up on his feet sooner rather than later. 

He left the crate on the couch, because maneuvering it around while attempting to control his crutches was just gonna be a disaster. Only took him one fragmented coffee mug to work that out, too. If he couldn't be constructive in that direction, though, and he was still locked out of the range, he was gonna go tidy some shit. 

Clint never got the urge when he was Avenging. Mostly his interaction with his bedroom was just collapsing face first onto whatever heap of clothing was close enough, and crawling out from under a pile of laundry for coffee in the morning, mostly with at least one sock statically attached to his back. He knew exactly which piles were dirty, which piles were clean, and which piles were worth a sniff test; he didn't really see much point putting clothing away when it was only get worn again and end up back on the floor. Clint didn't have much truck with fighting against entropy, 'cos it mostly just sounded exhausting. 

That was the other danger of staying on the couch, of course. Pain and the meds Tasha was insisting he took combined to make him sleepy, and being unable to resist sleepiness sometimes resulted in - well, it never did him any good to actually _think_ about things. He was best off training hard and working hard and avoiding harder than either of these. 

So Clint wobbled to his room and took a careful seat on the floor, only wondering once he'd already lowered himself incrementally downwards how the hell he was gonna get himself up again. 

The rooms he kept in the tower were functional rather than comfortable. He still had an apartment in Bed-Stuy, dust starting to film over his clutter. It was difficult to precisely date when he'd stopped spending much time there, but he thought it might've originally been because of Tasha's conflicted feelings about the man who'd been the Winter Soldier. It wasn't that he didn't trust her ability to protect herself; more sort of the opposite, in fact. He'd figured that an impartial observer might help ensure things stayed reasonably civil. 

It was a little difficult to remain entirely impartial for long, though. 

He was straying dangerously close to things that were best not thought about, especially when he was already in pain and therefore feeling kind of shitty about himself. 

"Let me know if anything goes down with the team," he asked FRIDAY, and then got to work sorting out all the clothes that were within reach, finding a few unexpected items: an oversized and slightly threadbare knitted sweater that might have been Bruce's; a pair of Tasha's yoga pants; a kid-size plastic Captain America mask. He got into a good rhythm with it, folding and stacking and flinging the dirty stuff into one giant pile in the corner, and when he was woken up past midnight mostly he was pissed at accidentally kicking over one of his newly neat piles. 

"C'min," he said, pulling out one of his hearing aids and grimacing at the way his ears felt. He pushed himself up on his elbows, feeling odd and heavy with sleep, and he tried to shake shirts off his leg without jarring his knee. 

The room had gone dark around him, and he winced up at the doorway as it opened, squinting into the indirect light from the hallway outside. 

"Hey." Bucky's voice was soft, calm, enough to uncoil some of the tension in Clint's shoulders that was always there when the team went out without him. 

"All good?" he asked. 

"Better'n you," Bucky said, and Clint gave him the finger, making Bucky laugh softly. Clint cursed the fact that he was mostly silhouetted against the light; Bucky's laughter was a rare and beautiful thing. "You need a hand?" 

"Ugh," Clint said, but he held up his hands in any case. Bucky hesitated a moment, then just stepped forward into the dimness, reaching down to clasp his hands around Clint's. He was strong and careful enough that they managed to get Clint upright without straining his knee, Bucky supporting him as he hopped backwards and sat down on the edge of his bed. 

There was a moment there. Just the smallest moment, barely noticeable; slightly extended eye contact, the dark of dilated pupils in the dark. Clint found himself leaning forward just a little, enough to make it seem deliberate when Bucky ducked away. 

"Got bored, huh?" Bucky said, ducking down to pick up the pile that Clint'd kicked over, folding the four shirts and tucking them into an open drawer. 

"Please don't do that." Clint hauled himself further up on his bed, intrigued by the idea of sleeping on his mattress for once. "Makin' me feel like even more of a pathetic loser than usual." 

"You're not a loser," Bucky snapped, instant prickle of defensiveness that settled warm in Clint's chest. 

"Mmkay," he said, in the teeth of the evidence, and grabbed one of the slightly musty pillows, punching it into place under his cheek. He hissed a little as he turned onto his side, and a moment later there was a warm hand supporting his knee while Bucky grabbed the other pillow, tucking it into place under his leg. 

"Don't hurt yourself." 

"Don't pity me," Clint said, mumbled and slow, and the uncertain light from the hallway caught the edges of an expression that he wasn't sure he could identify, one he hadn't seen before on Bucky's face. 

"Yeah," he said, and reached out like he was gonna touch Clint's face, before he clenched his hand and dropped it back to his side. "That ain't it at all." 


	5. Five Stolen Things

Clint crawled out of bed the next morning with the kind of lethargy and fuzziness that pain pills always gave him - hell, he could barely even remember making it into bed the night before. He grabbed the cardboard box of pills and tossed them under his bed, grabbing a couple Tylenol from the top drawer of his nightstand and washing them down with cold coffee instead. 

As a result it took him longer to get himself going, a brisk rubdown with a washcloth having to take the place of the shower he really wanted, soft sweatpants pulled on so carefully over his knee. He grabbed a shirt from one of the piles of clean laundry and hauled it on over his head before balancing himself carefully on his crutches and making his way to the couch. 

It was long past breakfast for the majority of the Avengers but Tony was in the kitchen, whistling Jingle Bells between his teeth and happily toasting the last two slices of bread. 

"Tell me there's something else to eat," Clint said pathetically, and Tony made a rueful face. 

"Sorry, Birdbrain. Grocery delivery's coming in a couple hours. There's coffee?" 

Clint nodded stoically, making grabby hands until Tony brought some over. The rush of hot liquid did little to subdue the growling in his stomach but the kick of caffeine sure was appreciated. Cleared things up a little in Clint's brain, brought up a couple memories of Bucky helping him get settled, tucking a pillow under his knee. He hadn't really thought of the man as being gentle, before. Most of his thoughts kinda tended in another direction entirely, actually, and for a first encounter in his bedroom, last night's memory was kind of a disappointment. Which, y'know, probably made him kind of a creep. 

"I guess you want some too," Tony said, and it was with a certain sense of inevitability that Clint looked up to see Bucky glowering in the doorway, his hair a pillow-rumpled mess. 

"Hey," Clint said, awkwardly, "thanks for the save last night." 

Bucky shrugged one shoulder and headed into the kitchen, doing something that made Tony make an outraged squawking sound and then laugh in that distinctive way that suggested he had a screwdriver held between his teeth. 

"'e's gonna kill oo," he said, then spat out the screwdriver and took a satisfied crunching bite of toast. "Although, play your cards right, at least you can probably get him to kill Clint too." 

"Who's killing Clint?" Clint asked, and Bucky came out of the kitchen, unconcerned, a couple of Thor's chocolate poptarts on a plate that he set in front of Clint. 

"No one's killing Clint. Eat your breakfast." 

Life looked a lot better when he had warm toaster pastries inside of him. He grinned over at Bucky, who looked down at his hands and quirked a little smile in return, which was probably at the chocolate crumbs collected in the corners of Clint's mouth. 

"So I was thinking," Clint said, a little giddy with - the sugar, call it the sugar, as the less embarrassing option. "Epic Xbox tournament?"

"Sure." Bucky's smile grew a little; Clint's heart maybe grew three sizes. "The one with the cowboys?" 

Clint's face fell. "I'm fairly certain Sam's got that one locked up in his room, after Thor kinda destroyed the controller. Pretty sure I coulda fixed it, too, given maybe five minutes and a screwdriver, but some people are too goddamned precious with the tools -" 

"Gimme a sec," Bucky told him, intent and serious and with humour glinting in his eyes. He grabbed the precariously held together controller from in front of the TV, then stalked into the kitchen with a determined look on his face. An outraged squawk later, a slightly damp screwdriver was tossed into his lap, and Bucky was marching out of the door. 

"You only get a pass because you're injured," Tony said from the kitchen doorway, but his glare wasn't a patch on Bucky's. 

"I'm just sitting here!" Clint said. "I did nothing!"

Tony shook his head and smirked. "You know exactly what you did." 

Clint didn't, is the thing. He really wasn't sure what was going on, but that little smile on Bucky's face had been tentative in the quietly exciting way of fluttering stomach butterflies, of dream job interviews, and performances, and first dates. It was. It was something to think about, maybe. It was something not to overthink. 

Clint got to playing with the controller in his hands. He was no slouch with a screwdriver, created and repaired all his arrows, so it wasn't much to find the wires that'd been jogged loose and fix 'em up again. The controller was a little rickety, mostly held together with tape when he was done, but it worked. 

Like some kinda metaphor, or something. 

Bucky came back a little later looking smug, kinda dusty, and brandishing the case to Red Dead Redemption 2. He settled in next to Clint, close enough that their shoulders brushed, trading off the controller between them. 

Naturally, that was when the Avengers alarm rattled through the damned tower. 

"Have they no sense of Christmas spirit?" Tony mourned from the kitchen, stomping out and heading into the elevator. 

"How'm I supposed to entertain myself now?" Clint kept most of the bitterness from his voice but it was kinda tough. 

"I could steal you Steve's shield," Bucky suggested, "you could use it as a frisbee." 

"Maybe when you get back." 

It was a weird moment. A moment of intense awareness, when Bucky turned to grin at him and Clint registered how close they were, face to face. Bucky's eyes flickered down and then up again, and Clint almost tipped his head a little forward; maybe would have, if it wasn't for the whoop of the alarm. 

"Maybe," he said, soft, and Bucky swore under his breath before pushing up to his feet, heading for the door to the landing pad. 

Clint grinned down at the battered controller in his hands. Usually he'd be arguing himself outta whatever this was, right about now, but it was still intangible enough to pretend it could happen. To pretend that the idiot tangle of happiness in his stomach could lead to something real. 

_Hey_ , was the text he got later that evening, when FRIDAY had let him know that the Avengers were on their way back, Katie-Kate’s picture grinning at him from the screen, _why the hell did your assassin come steal our dog?_

Clint had no damned chance of smothering his grin. 


	6. Six Dogs A-Playing

Clint was on the landing pad, waiting to greet them. He was wearing the thermal gloves, a couple of sweatshirts, fleece-lined sweatpants, three pairs of socks and the comforter off his bed, and it had taken him the better part of an hour to wrap himself up in that many layers without fucking up his knee. He had to be out there, though, had to be sitting ready to just open his arms and have Lucky run into them. 

(Mostly Lucky was a fairly placid dog, but it'd been a while since Clint'd made it back to Bed-Stuy.)

He squinted against the dust kicked up by the quinjet's landing and grinned when he heard barking even before the hatch had fully opened. He got bowled over backwards by an armful of golden fur, and he had to bury his face in Lucky's warm side until he'd calmed down a little. And then he had to hide his face again 'cos Lucky was determined to wash it, and someone had been feeding him anchovies again. 

Eventually Lucky's wriggling delight subsided and Clint could wave a sheepish greeting at the members of the team who hadn't already made their way inside; Tasha, and Steve, and Bucky, who'd apparently found the time to get changed out of his usual leather on leather ensemble and into - 

"Hey," Clint said, "did you steal my hoodie?" 

Bucky shrugged, swamped in the oversized purple, and tucked his nose into the neck of his sweatshirt not so much to warm it, Clint suspected, as to hide his smile. 

"Figured you owed me something for the dog," he said eventually, reluctantly emerging in case Clint wasn't wearing his aids. Clint grinned up at him, wide and delighted, and wondered whether all of the pink on Bucky's cheeks was from the chill. 

"Not gonna argue it," Clint said, and wrapped his arms a little more securely around warm fur. "This is the best day ever." 

Bucky murmured something that Clint couldn't quite hear, and Steve snorted and gave him a fond look that nonetheless held a good deal of mockery just under the surface. 

They helped Clint up eventually, Lucky walking attentively by his side until he was lowered carefully onto the couch. Apparently that made the furniture fair game, and Clint found himself with a lap full of dog and a side that was warm from the Winter Soldier sitting there, and he had to fight his way out of the comforter before he wound up cooking inside his skin. 

"Dog Cops?" Bucky asked, and Clint frowned slightly.

"Buck," he said, slowly. "You don't - this wasn't your fault, you know that, right? You don't have to make this up to me." 

"Don't know what you mean," he said, scrolling through channels and not looking Clint's way. 

"I mean the gloves and the Dog Cops and - futz, man, you went and got my _dog_. You don't have to do nice things to me, we're good, you're forgiven." 

"Yeah, well," Bucky said, "maybe it's worth it just to see you smile." Clint snorted out a laugh and Bucky smiled a little too, lopsided, his ears going red. "Now shut up," he said after a second of Clint's muffled snickering, "Sergeant Whiskers is on." 

*

The next morning, despite having fallen asleep somewhere around season two, Clint woke up in his own bed, and he had a pretty good idea who had carried him back. It was a strange idea, a fragile one, the kind of idea you cupped in your hands and couldn't look at straight on for fear of it breaking. It was enough to warm him, though, enough to have him smiling as he made his way out into the common areas, swinging along on his crutches and almost tripping over his grinning dog. 

Most of the day he had to fend for himself, although when you sleep until the early afternoon, 'most of the day' was at best an hour or two in the winter. Bucky returned at 3, pink cheeked and grinning, and Clint wanted to run his fingers through the guy's windblown hair. 

"Get your coat," he said, and Clint compromised with a couple of hoodies and a battered leather jacket, zipping it up to his neck. Bucky rolled his eyes and grabbed a scarf out of the cupboard by the door, slinging it around Clint's neck and tying it carefully in place. 

"Where're we going?" Clint asked, and Bucky flushed a little deeper pink and didn't answer, just jerking his head to get Clint to follow him. 

It was close enough to walk apparently. The sun was just going down and the streets were gritted against the snow that the low clouds threatened. Every window they walked past seemed to be full of twinkling lights, and snatches of Christmas music drifted from shop doorways and passing cars, and Clint would've given just about anything not to be handicapped by the goddamn crutches. He wanted more than anything to be able to reach out and grab Bucky's hand. 

They took a couple side streets, wound up in a slightly quieter part of town. Bucky led them to a beat-up building and knocked on a side door, his metal knuckles rattling against the peeling paint of the metal door. 

"Hey," he said, when the door opened, and Clint peered around his shoulders to get a look at the inside. Bucky spread his hand wide over Clint's face and made a show of pushing him backwards, taking care to ensure that there was no way he could lose his balance, even though he was - well, Clint. 

"Come on in, Mr Barnes," a cheerful voice said, and Bucky led the way inside. It smelled a little musty but cut with the scent of industrial cleaning products, and Clint frowned at Bucky's back. Then a door opened, and a wave of barking rushed out at them, filling the room. 

"What?" Clint asked, a little dazed, and Bucky turned to look over his shoulder and grinned at him. 

"One of the dogs they took in here was pregnant," Bucky said, shrugging one shoulder like that would be enough to absolve him of whatever the hell this was, like he could pretend that he could do something like this and not care. "They need to socialise the puppies, get 'em used to people. I volunteered your services." 

There was a pen in the centre of the room, and Bucky helped Clint awkwardly sit himself inside it and then handed over the chubby little puppies, putting a couple in his lap, three on the floor beside him, and nestling a tiny sleeping one into his hood, his hand cradled underneath in case it dislodged itself. 

Clint was in _heaven._

Clint was, very possibly, in love.


	7. Seven Gorgeous Women

It was hard to casually brush shoulders with someone while you were navigating slippery straights with a pair of crutches, but Clint gave it his best damned shot and managed not to injure either of them in the process, which he counted as a win. He found the corners of his mouth drifting upwards outside of his conscious volition, still a little touch-drunk from the blissful half hour he'd spent playing with the puppies. He had to keep biting down on his lip - there was this ball of warmth lodged just behind his sternum, like a bubble of laughter that was just waiting for the opportunity to emerge, and Clint was a little afraid of which words it'd push out with it. 

They weren't even - this wasn't even a thing. It was a foetal thing, maybe, an incipient thing, a folded crumpled up bud of a thing that had the potential to grow into something beautiful, provided Clint didn't accidentally stomp all over it first. So Clint kept his mouth shut, and wore his small smiles, and nearly injured them ten times and change when the urge to sway into Bucky's side couldn't be denied. 

"You had a good time?" Bucky asked, when they got back to the tower, and Clint gave in and just _beamed_ at him, every inch of him radiating pure joy. 

"The _best_ ," he said, quiet and kind of reverent, and Bucky's eyes flicked back and forth between his, and he bit down on his plush lower lip, and Clint got that feeling you get on the edges of cliffs, on very high places, like gravity's taken a personal interest in you and wants to sway you just a little the right way. 

He wasn't brave enough, though. Didn't want to breathe wrong, fuck up the tiny seedling of hope with his black goddamn thumbs. So he ducked his head and broke eye contact, smiled at the floor. 

"Don't tell Natasha," he said, "but you're kinda my favourite," and carried the confused little grin Bucky sent his way all the way up to his room. 

*

Clint fell asleep early, that night, curled around his dog and dreaming about more. Maybe they did something to keep away the nightmares, because he managed to sleep straight through until morning and wake up feeling marginally human, although covered in hair. Making a mental note to change his sheets sometime soon, maybe do his laundry, Clint showered off the layer of fuzz that came with sleeping wrapped around Lucky and carefully pulled on sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. 

Tony and Steve were sitting in contented silence in the kitchen, munching on toast and reading different sections of the newspaper. Tony was only barely caffeinated, and kept trying to swipe to turn the pages. 

Clint hobbled over to the counter and pondered his choices before popping a couple of chocolate PopTarts in the toaster rather than attempting to unsteadily transport anything with milk. He was dreamily bopping to the gentle ticking of the toaster's timer, leaning back against the counter, when Bucky walked in. 

He was shameless about it, his eyes dropping to Clint's abs before dragging slowly back up, and Clint was grinning when Bucky made eye contact again, a little wide-eyed in the morning light. 

"See something you like?" Clint said, and Bucky swallowed hard and backed out of the room, leaving Clint confused and a little unsettled. "What'd I -?"

"Don't worry about him," Steve said, his words pulled a little out of shape by the toast in his mouth. "He's just got some things to work out." 

"Okay," Clint said, but he had some concerns. 

He felt those concerns were justified when he was dragged out of the house again that night, Bucky walking beside him with his back rigid, his hands stuffed deeply into his coat pockets. Clint gamely tried to keep up, but he was about two feet behind Bucky when he swung into a bar, garish neon posters advertising CHRISTMAS SPEED DATING on the door that slammed in Clint's face. 

"What," Clint said flatly, too surprised for intonation, but the door was flung open again and he was yanked inside before he could make a break for it. 

"Are you our final bachelor?" a perky blonde asked, her smile perfectly painted and her hair perfectly curled. "We've got six beautiful girls for you to meet. Have you done speed dating before?" 

"No," Clint said, looking frantically around for Bucky, who had sloped off towards the bar. 

"Well it's really very simple. See -"

"No, I mean I'm not -" 

"- for three minutes, and when the bell rings the women stay put and the -" 

"- bachelor, or at least, I'm a bachelor but -"

" - tick on your sheet to indicate -" 

"- I'm mostly into GUYS," Clint projected, right into one of those odd gaps that sometimes happened in crowded rooms. 

"Ah," said the blonde, her smile not diminishing an inch. "Then I hope to see you here at next week's event, NEW YEAR'S GAY!" Her gaze slid from his face to the red-faced man who'd just pushed open the door, clearly done with him, and she started her patter all over again. 

"What," Clint said, wobbling his way across the snowmelt-slick floor, "Bucky, what the hell was that?" 

There was a bottle of beer waiting on the bar for him, so Clint downed it in record time and reached out to snag Bucky's from between his fingers, too. Bucky watched with dark eyes as Clint pressed his mouth to glass still slick from Bucky's, and Clint's heart beat a little harder, right at the base of his throat. 

"I guess I was curious," Bucky said. "Wondered if this -" he gestured to the six small tables, each with an improbably lovely woman sitting at it, "was your kinda scene." 

"There are subtler ways of asking if I like dick, asshole," Clint said, and ran his tongue up the neck of the bottle, flicking it across the mouth. 

Bucky was still gaping at him when he limped his way to the door. 


	8. Eight Minutes Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milking is not an easy word to rhyme.

Bucky followed him out of the bar, a warm but silent presence behind his right shoulder, and Clint would’ve given anything to be able to outpace him – for the first time since it had happened, he was pissed at Bucky for fucking up his knee. The cold air was making it worse, too, settling into the joint and aching there. A stray patch of ice almost fucked him up further, insinuating under his crutch and stealing his balance. He’d have gone down if it wasn’t for Bucky’s metal hand under his elbow, propping him upright and holding there for exactly as long as it took him to get back his balance and not a second longer. “I’m not thanking you,” Clint said, petty and laced in bitterness, and turned his head just enough to see Bucky shrug and stare off across the street at the Christmas display in the window of the department store there. The gentle glow of Christmas lights couldn’t touch Bucky across the distance, of course, and he was lit with the harsher acid-white streetlights, the lines of him carved sharp and artistic. He looked untouchable, like something in a gallery, but Clint knew down to his soul that a second’s wobble would have Bucky instantly back inside his space with gentle hands.

It was confusing as hell. Clint needed a moment to think. 

It wasn’t like Clint was the embodiment of healthy communication, or anything. At least three of his relationships had ended because he’d opened his mouth at the wrong time, and a whole bunch more because he _hadn’t_. But there was a kind of… distant calculation behind Bucky dragging him to a speed dating night, like he’d been watching Clint’s reaction and taking notes. Clint didn’t like that he got to be so illogically logical about it all, ‘cos after the smile Bucky’d been wearing while Clint was playing with puppies, it didn’t feel like Clint could be dispassionate at _all_. 

Clint paused at the steps up to the tower, tilting his head back to see if he could see all the way to the top. He could almost feel the radiated heat from Bucky’s hand, hovering just behind his upper back but deliberately not making contact. There if he needed it. 

“I don’t get how you can be so considerate and still such an _asshole_ ,” he said, thoughtful, and then turned and stumped on along the sidewalk, Bucky following uncomplainingly behind him. Clint let them walk in silence for a while, then turned into the entrance of a late night coffee shop, ordering two coffees and paying, not needing to look to know that Bucky was grabbing them both and following him out to the park across the street. Clint found a corner that was a little sheltered by two brick walls, propped himself carefully, and grabbed his coffee out of Bucky’s hand. 

“Okay,” Clint said, and blew out a slow breath, steam curling out like the visible release of his anger. “I’m still pissed at you, but I guess I’m willing to listen.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, which was a good place to start. “That - I get that I fucked that up.” 

“No kidding.” Clint carefully peeled off the lid of his coffee, inhaling greedily before wafting it around so the winter air could get it a little closer to drinkable. 

“I’m not used to just asking, I guess,” Bucky said. Clint lifted his chin, ready to call that out as the pathetic excuse it was, but there was something about Bucky’s face that didn’t let him. Something old, and kinda worn out - something that sure as hell wasn’t used to looking at things in this century. 

“So what’re you used to?” Clint asked, quietly. 

“There were places you could go, back then. Not like these days - they sure as hell weren’t so open about it - but there were places that didn’t care who you danced with, didn’t take any notice of who was followin’ you home.” Bucky smiled, a little wicked, and caught Clint’s eye for a second. “Only sometimes a fella caught your eye, some big, muscled, clumsy guy, but you’d seen him someplace else, sticking out from amongst all the regular folk like a sore thumb. And maybe you’d get a kinda feeling from him that’d make you hope he knew those kinda places too. So you’d watch, for a while, see how he was with the dames. Maybe catch his eye if you thought he was the type for dancing, maybe see if he’d follow you home.” 

“So you wanted to see me around dames, huh?” 

Bucky shrugged. “Only girls I’ve seen you around have been too young, or spoken for, or Natasha.” He looked at the ground and scuffed at it with his foot, his hair falling across his face. “And Steve said you were married, before.” 

“And Steve said you were a ladies’ man,” Clint said, “and yet here we are.” 

“Here we are,” Bucky said, and the smile on his face was really something else. 

Clint took another sip of his coffee, like that’d do anything to subdue the butterflies that’d started doing laps in his gut. Bucky was chewing on his lip a little, and the nervousness in the movement soothed a little of Clint’s. 

“Next time, just ask,” Clint said. “You’re not in the ‘40s any more.” 

The nervous little grin grew all disproportionately like a sunrise, nothing one moment and the whole world lighting up the next. 

“Yeah,” he said, “well you ain’t in the circus any more, but you still think stale popcorn’s a breakfast food. I’m workin’ on it.” 

“Okay.” Clint settled himself on his crutches again, making sure he was stable before he held his elbow away from his side, giving Bucky a sidelong look until he snorted out a laugh and hooked his hand there. 

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky said, watching carefully as Clint wobbled his way into motion. 

“Sure,” Clint said, “but I’m working on it.” 


	9. Nine Stolen Glances

So Clint no longer had the urge to yell at Bucky, but that didn't leave him anywhere like solid ground. He wasn't sure where exactly they stood in relation to each other, because as far as he was concerned interest had been fairly firmly established on both their parts, but he didn't seem any closer to getting laid. 

The worst of it was that he wasn't entirely sure that it was _about_ getting laid, at least not exclusively. Bucky being careful with him, treating him gently, being all attentive, bringing him gifts - it all felt a little bit more significant than just getting his dick sucked. The kinda significant that mostly ended in heartbreak, in Clint's experience, and until he had some kinda confirmation that he wasn't in this alone he was gonna tread light. 

At least, as light as he could, given that he was still heaving himself around on two metal sticks, clumsy and uncomfortable and entirely lacking in stealth. Pretty much the only advantage of the crutches so far was that he wouldn't be expected to dance and make nice at the Stark charity benefit they were having for Christmas. They weren't enough to get him out of the thing all together, no chance of sweatpants and Dog Cops and pizza from Sal's, but at least he could sit in a corner and make people fetch him drinks. 

Natasha helped him get ready, the night of the party. They started early, so she had time to get dolled up herself; Tasha hauled a plastic lawn chair into the huge shower cubicle in his rooms, helping him unsnap the brace from around his knee and peeling him out of his sweatpants and shirt. He balked a little at the underwear, but the unimpressed look she shot him had him buckling in fairly short order, cupping a hand over his crotch as she helped lever him into the chair. Not exactly glamorous, sure, but it was a hell of a lot better than he'd managed so far, and it'd work until he could manage to persuade her to help him sneak into Tony's jacuzzi tub. The hot water was incredible, soothing aches he hadn't even really registered he'd had, and it felt really good to lather up his hair and rinse out the days of grease. He'd've stayed in there longer if Tasha had let him, but she hauled him out once she was satisfied he was clean, handing him a towel and helping him to limp over to the bed. 

"Don't do anything stupid," she said, once she'd got him situated against the headboard, dumping his tablet in his lap. The room was warm enough that he'd be okay in just a towel until she came back. "I'm getting my hair done, and then it will be time for you to get ready."

"But you're coming back, right?" Clint asked, attention already almost entirely taken up by making his candy match. 

"Don't worry," she said, and he could hear the grin in her voice, though he wasn't quite quick enough to catch it on her face. "I would not leave you without help." 

The moderately ambiguous wording didn't actually register until his door creaked open later and he looked up to find Bucky Barnes gaping down at him. 

So it wasn't the most elegant moment of his life, trying to push himself up from his sprawl without a) injuring his knee or b) giving Bucky an eyefull. He just about managed to get himself nominally upright, and had to clear his throat to get Bucky's attention back from somewhere around his thighs. It was kind of a good feeling, actually - it's not easy to feel good about yourself with a constant low-grade pain eroding everything decent about you, but the gentle flush on Bucky's cheeks when he briefly caught Clint's eyes again was a hell of a boost to the ego. 

"Natalia said you needed help." His voice was low and kinda husky, and Clint bit down on the corner of his grin and gestured to the suit bag hanging on the closet door. Bucky looked over at it, then looked at him awkwardly, clearly taking in the lack of anything in the way of clothing that he'd managed so far. Clint was tempted to laugh but took pity on him instead, pushing himself more upright and resting his weight on the hands he'd propped a little behind him. The way Bucky's eyes dropped to his arms was all kinds of gratifying. 

"It's fine," he said. "I can manage most of it myself, if you -" 

"I want to help," Bucky interrupted, and he went to fetch the suit, unzipping the suit bag and pulling out the pants. Clint shifted his weight carefully and fished for clean underwear on the floor, ending up rolled almost entirely over onto his front, and when he looked back over his shoulder there was no question that Bucky was sneaking a look. 

Clint tossed the boxer briefs down by the end of the bed, shuffling his feet into them and wriggling ineffectively to try and get them up his legs. 

Bucky breathed out something filthy in Russian, and then grabbed the waistband, his jaw ticking as he negotiated them carefully up past Clint's knees before guiding Clint around until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. 

"On three," he said, and grabbed Clint by the elbows, counting and then pulling him upright, Clint grabbing for the underwear before they could drop back down to his ankles. He pulled them up, one-handed, trying not to knock the towel loose as he did so. Bucky's head was tilted down, his hair falling over his face, and Clint smiled. 

"Eyes are up here." 

Bucky's eyes flicked up again to meet his, and the look in them - 

"So we should probably talk," Clint said, and Bucky's fingers flexed against his elbows like Clint's weight, his reliance, was all that was keeping him in the room. Clint didn't miss the desperate glance at the door. He let out a breath at the look on Bucky's face, and rolled his eyes. "It doesn't have to be now. Help me get my damned pants on, and then get Natasha for me." 

"Clint -" 

"I'm not having a feelings talk in my underwear," he said simply, and laughed when Bucky looked torn, his eyes flicking down again before they settled on Clint's face. The heat had melted them a little, put a look in there that Clint was hesitant to name. 

"There's feelings?"

Clint smiled, slow, and the flickering glance was down at his lips this time so he leaned in, close enough to press a kiss just to the corner of Bucky's mouth, so he could feel the other man's lips move a little against his. 

"Pants now," he said, "feelings later."


	10. Ten Hours Sleeping

It was a little like being in a dream. The hall was lit gently, the chandeliers unlit but draped in strings of white lights that hung like icicles, reaching for the dancers below. Every table had a flickering candle in the center, and every window and door was lined with beads of soft light. Strung from the ceiling at different heights were the glowing spheres that gave the Annual Stark Charity Snow Ball its name. 

Clint had avoided as much of the crowds of press as he'd been able, making his careful way down the ostentatious staircase before heading directly for the tables by the food. He was still a little off-balance; all the effort in getting ready and he somehow hadn't been prepared for the sight of Bucky Barnes in a damned tux. 

He'd shaved, and his hair was loose and resting on his shoulders, and he looked like a movie star, like a million bucks, like someone who shouldn't look at Clint twice. He looked like just about the most beautiful thing Clint'd ever seen, and Clint hadn't been sure there was room in his chest for everything he was feeling. 

Natasha had helpfully pushed his mouth closed for him, and Bucky had met his eyes with an unfamiliarly shy smile. 

They'd been ushered into separate limos, and Clint had made helpless faces at Tasha, lost for words to describe how out of his depth he felt with all of this, and she'd relented and let him cling to her hand, scratching her perfectly manicured nails through his hair and somehow leaving it looking better than anything he'd managed with ten minutes of concentrated effort and some very expensive wax. He'd just about managed to get ahold of himself by the time he had to lever himself out of the back of the limo, smile for the obligatory couple of snaps, and then make his clumsy way to the chair that was gonna be his base for the night. 

And Bucky had been in his eyeline all damned night, talking and laughing and doing all the public relations shit, and all the time shooting him these little sideways glances until he thought he was gonna go crazy with it. 

"I'm not imagining this, right?" Clint said, when Tasha took pity on him and brought him over a plate of fancy canapes and a glass of mineral water that probably cost more than the beer he drank. "You'd tell me if this was all in my head." 

"Clint -" she said, all fond impatience, and he raised apologetic hands. 

"No, no, I know, good things happen, but -" Clint made a face. "He's so - " he waved an illustrative hand at where Bucky was standing, head tossed back and laughing at something Steve had said. "And I'm just -" Clint gestured down - he'd already got crumbs down the front of his jacket. "I'm not sure I've ever done anything nice enough to deserve him." 

Natasha tutted, and reached out to tweak at his tie. 

"If it's any consolation," she said, "I am certain he would say the same thing." 

Clint held out until the music turned slow, some beautifully quiffed pretty boy crooning Bing Crosby's Christmas hits, before he braced himself upright, hobbling the careful few steps to where Bucky stood, only one crutch between him and disaster. 

"Hey," he said, low and more nervous than he'd ever care to admit, "you wanna?" 

And Bucky grinned, and bit his lower lip, and curved a careful arm around Clint's waist, shuffling them gently enough that Clint could mostly just sway on the spot. It was reminiscent of the kinda dances movies'd told Clint they had in high schools, and Clint could believe it - it was a teenage sort of feeling, this riot of butterflies tangling up his insides, the rush of their wings lifting the corners of his mouth. 

"We'll do this properly, next time," he said, leaning in a little closer so he could talk soft into Bucky's ear. "Go out dancin', paint the town red."

Bucky's cheek moved against Clint's like he was smilin', and Clint only with great reluctance managed to pull away, put them in a position a little more appropriate for a ballroom with more members of the press than Clint liked to think about. 

"Next time, huh?" Bucky said, and Clint tugged away from him and hobbled back to his table, grabbing his other crutch and beckoning to Bucky impatiently. He glanced around before heading determinedly for a pair of french doors that led out to a small balcony, making it there just before Bucky and stepping out into the frigid air. 

"What -" Bucky said, all he managed to get out before Clint had tugged him closer, tipped his head back with a heated kiss that Bucky didn't hesitate to return, pressing a hand to the small of Clint's back so he could tug him in closer. It was close to perfect, how they fit together, and Clint couldn't pull away until the need for oxygen forced him to break contact and even then he had to return once, twice, pressing helpless kisses to Bucky's mouth. 

"What?" Bucky said again, but he was smiling again, and Clint shook off one of his crutches, ignoring the clatter as it hit the floor, so he could cup Bucky's cheek and sweep his thumb across his impossibly tempting bottom lip. 

"You smile at me like that and think I'm gonna do anything except kiss you?" Clint asked, and Bucky's smile widened as he leaned his head a little into Clint's hand. 

"Yeah," Bucky said. "Feelings," and Clint felt a smile curve his own mouth, too. 

"Save it for later," he said. "You've got to go glad some more hands, and there's a buffet table that's calling my name. But - we'll talk about this later?" 

Bucky leaned in to kiss him, this time, something soft and gentle that tasted like a promise. 

"Later," he said. 

*

Later didn't come right away, though. Not when there was a party to get through, then a limo ride with smiles and heated glances and more yawns than Clint cared to admit. Not when he meant to say something sexy and invite Bucky back to his place, but wound up slumped against the guy's side in the elevator, exhaustedly watching the numbers tick slowly up. 

Sure, Bucky helped him undress, but Clint was pretty sure there was nothing much sexy about a guy who could barely keep his eyes open; somehow, that didn't stop Bucky from giving him that shy smile again and agreeing when Clint asked him to stay.


	11. Eleven Tribbles Fighting

Clint woke to the muffled blare of alarms, disoriented because he wasn't used to sleeping so deeply or so well. He reached out, a protesting mumble coming from the deepest parts of him as Bucky pulled away and vaulted out of bed, pulling on his undershirt from the night before and hesitating for a moment before ducking in and pressing a sleepily-aimed kiss to the corner of his mouth. He was racing for the door before Clint had time to even react, and it took Clint so long to haul himself upright, find his aids and make himself decent that by the time he reached the living room it was to see the quinjet already taking flight. 

"Hey Friday?" he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee - 'cos apparently some people had managed to get up in time - and carefully carrying it across to the couch. "C'n you patch me in?" 

There was a burst of noise in Clint's ear that had him wincing, and he reached up to carefully adjust the volume on his aids. At the same time a holographic screen projected in front of him, and he was treated to a lingering look at Steve's ass in skin-tight spandex. 

"Really, Tony?" he said, and the view snapped disorientingly upward, showing the familiar surroundings of Central Park and the team in various battle-ready positions. 

"Glad you could join us, Hawkeye," Tony said, not the slightest trace of shame in his voice - not that Clint had expected it. 

"Keep your eyes on the prize, Tin Man. You're gonna have to be more alert without me to watch your ass." The emphasis he put on the last three words wasn't exactly low key - Clint was not a subtle man - and his stomach flipped a little when he heard Bucky's soft snort of laughter. 

"So what've we got?" Clint asked. 

"What is that, the royal 'we'?" Tony countered, a little pissy, and Natasha rolled her eyes. 

"The tribble things again. They have been spotted in the park, and FRIDAY has been running calculations to find their most likely nesting spot. Perhaps if we locate them during daylight we will succeed in catching all of them." 

"What?" Tony protested, "Come on, I let one go." 

"At least two," Sam corrected him, "and apparently they've been getting busy, 'cos there's at least eleven now." 

There was a little by-play as Tony made 'bow-chika-wow' noises and then scoffed when Steve said he didn't understand the reference, but Clint wasn't really listening. He was kinda distracted by the way Bucky was chewing on his lower lip and flicking the safety on and off on his gun. 

"Hey Buck," he said. "You overthinking things?" 

Bucky took a breath, opened his mouth, and that was when the tribbles attacked. 

Clint had the worst luck, seriously. Or - no, wait, maybe Sam had the worst luck, 'cos that particular little fuzzball was apparently a jumper, and Clint winced as it clamped its teeth into the armor covering his - thigh. He was gonna go with thigh. Clint's luck was still pretty shitty, though, 'cos apparently the world was gonna continue conspiring against him getting two consecutive words outta -

"Clint," Bucky said, and everything else just kinda fell away. He ought to tell the guy to focus, to prioritise, but the tone of his voice meant Clint was having a pretty hard time thinking of anything outside of it. 

"Still here," he said. "Haven't gone anywhere," and immediately regretted it when he saw Bucky's wince. 

"Yeah," he said, and blasted a tribble that was making a break for Wanda. "I'm sorry about that." 

"I got that," Clint said. "What with the gloves, the pens, getting my dog for me, that thing with the puppies -"

Bucky shot a look at Tony, and it was like he was rolling his eyes right at Clint. 

"You gotta know those weren't all apologies," he said, and then flushed an intriguing red when Steve cut in. 

"Our friendship woulda been very different if he kissed all the people he was apologising to." 

Clint took a sip of over-hot coffee and almost coughed it out of his nose, grateful that no one could see the colors he'd turned. 

"Can one of you assholes focus on the alien monsters we're trying to vanquish instead of Barnes' love life?" Sam said, audibly pissed. 

"Ooh, vanquish." The screen lit bright blue as Tony whirled around and shot his repulsors at a group of three of the little furry creatures, sending them flying. "You've been spending too much time with Thor." 

"It is," Bucky said, "cards on the table," and Clint frowned a little. 

"Is what?" 

The adorable blush came back, and Bucky coughed and shot the last two tribble monsters. Natasha had been just about to take them on, too - he was gonna pay for that later. 

"It is my love life," Bucky said, awkward and visibly blushing. "If you're okay with that." 

"Why would you say that?" Clint asked, despairing, and hurriedly continued when he caught a glimpse of Bucky's wrecked expression. "Why would you say that at this exact moment, when you are in Central Park, which is both too goddamn far away and lacking in convenient walls to push you up against." 

"Oh hell," Natasha said, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. "Sam, Tony, one of youplease get this asshole back to the tower as soon as possible? We're going to get pancakes." 

"But we should -" 

" _Pancakes_ , Steven," and her voice didn't have an inch of give in it. 

Lucky pricked his ears up from where he was napping on the couch as Clint made his ungainly way to the glass doors between him and the landing pad. He had barely made his way out before there was a roar of jets and a spray of gravel as Bucky was dropped awkwardly in front of him, Sam taking off unflatteringly fast and Bucky flipping him the bird as he left. 

"So," Clint said, reaching out with his heart beating in his throat and running his finger down the side of Bucky's cold hand. "Love life, huh?" 

Bucky shrugged a little, stepped in close. 

"Well, I got you all those gifts. The hell did you think they meant?"


	12. Twelve hours c...

"Hey," Bucky said, his voice low and rasping and revealing his smile in every last word, "hey, sweetheart, get back here. I ain't through with you yet."


End file.
